


and i do love the drama

by doritoFace1q



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drabble, Humor, M/M, The Doctor is Amused (Doctor Who), The Master Has Issues, don't worry i don't get it either, ish, masterversary, no beta we die like the doctor every three seasons, plunked this out and threw it on a page you're welcome, the master being dramatic and six being a little bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26368966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doritoFace1q/pseuds/doritoFace1q
Summary: He was rather fetching, the Doctor supposed, in the rogueish, slightly unhinged sort of way found in handsome clowns or well-off court jesters. The effect was, however, slightly dampened by the thing he was pointing at his face.Or,The Doctor, the Master, a timeline, and a gadget that was definitely not doing what it was supposed to.
Relationships: Sixth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24
Collections: Masterversary Mini Event 2020-21





	and i do love the drama

**Author's Note:**

> working on the stuff with deadlines <<<<<<<<<<< this

Being grabbed and dragged into alleys was hardly what normal people would consider a part of daily routine, and being held at weaponpoint even less so. And even less so on G-Qix IX, a planet unknown throughout the five systems for its lack of hidden treasures and civil unrest, and abundance of snore-inducing boredom. The pies were nice, though.

The Doctor was not normal people. Quite the opposite, in fact.

What had he been talking about?

Ah, of course. Weaponpoint.

If it hadn’t been a pattern three bodies ago, it certainly was now. Normally, his captors would be so uninspired to use guns, or knives, on the odd day. Maybe even some improvisation, or even, dare he say it, _originality_ , if the Doctor was lucky.

Today, he was lucky.

The villain of the day was not a tall man, maybe an inch or two shorter than the Doctor himself, and the grip he had on his arm was strong enough to bruise. It might have been threatening, had the Doctor not grown used to such incidents centuries ago (He did _not_ , no matter what Peri used to say, go ‘looking for danger.’ Quite the contrary, in fact— _danger_ seemed to be looking for _him_ ).

He was rather fetching, the Doctor supposed, in the rogueish, slightly unhinged sort of way found in handsome clowns or well-off court jesters, dark, windswept (or perhaps it was just messy) hair brushed carelessly over his forehead. The effect was, however, slightly dampened by the thing he was pointing at his face.

“Pardon?” the Doctor asked.

The man scoffed. The Doctor focused on not staring at his lips. “I _said_ ,” the man repeated, “ _Doctor_.”

“Ah,” said the Doctor. “Yes, that’s me.” He tried to get a good look at the thing. It was vaguely box-shaped. as if crafted by someone who had only been given the loose description of what a box was, and wrapped in more wires than any not-box needed. “Looking, were you? Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. It’s my vacation day, you see, and, for once, I intend to _keep_ it that way.”

The man snorted. “Please,” he said. “You’ve never wanted a real vacation in your life.”

“ _Really_.” The Doctor crossed his arms. The man scowled and waved the thing a bit. “And just how would you know that?”

“Rassilon, you’re gullible when you’re young.”

“I beg your pardon!” the Doctor exclaimed. “I am hardly _young_ , young man. And how do you even know of Rassilon?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and leaned forwards until the thing the other man was holding nearly brushed his nose. “Who are you, anyway?”

The man sneered. “Take a guess.”

The Doctor squinted harder. The Valeyard? Impossible. Frobisher playing a trick, perhaps? But no, this wasn’t his style. He squinted even harder. until his eyes were nearly slits. The man rolled his eyes.

No. . . unless. . ?

The Doctor dragged in a long, hard sniff. “ _Oh_ ,” he said, nose wrinkling with disdain. “It’s you.”

The Master—and it _was_ the Master—bared his teeth in a cruel, capricious grin. “In the flesh.

“Stole another body, have you?” The Doctor looked down his nose at the checkered purple waistcoat. “Well,” he sniffed, “it’s better than being a crispy critter, I suppose.”

The Master scowled and raised the thing, pressing it to the Doctor’s forehead. “The only ‘crispy critter’ that’ll be here when I’m done is you,” he growled. “Just watch, Doctor, watch as—”

The Doctor leaned back and pulled at the point with his finger. It sprung back with a cheerful _twang_. “Of course,” he drawled. “What’s this, then? Revamped your shrinky dink?” He leaned back a bit more, eyes crossing as he looked down at the device. “Shame. At least the old one looked somewhat threatening.”

The Master gnashed his teeth. “ _TCE_!”

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but made no comment about the ridiculous name. They had a script to follow, after all. “Well, go on,” he said. “Lay it on me. The threats, the hostages, the impending universal doom? Throw in a ticking clock while you’re at it, why don’t you? It’s been a slow day. And I _do_ love the—”

The Master brandished the thing again. “Do we honestly need words, Doctor?” he asked, smiling a smile as sweet as poisoned honey and twice as sticky. “Really, I thought—”

“Let me guess,” said the Doctor. “You’ve upgraded to a gravitational compressor? It’ll turn me inside-out? You press that button and the ground beneath me crumbles and I fall screaming into the heart of a dying sun?”

“I—wha—”

“Always one for temporal engineering, weren’t you?” the Doctor continued, steamrolling over the Master’s attempts to break in. “But still, always more focused on the end result than the details. I remember those rants. Ah, how time flies.” He sighed contentedly. The Master _hwrngf_ ed. “It seems like just yesterday—”

The Master made a furious, strangled noise and pressed the spring to the Doctor’s forehead. “Do you _ever_ stop talking?”

“Well, I do believe I’ll leave that up to you to tell me,” said the Doctor. “You are ahead of me, aren’t you?” he asked, running an eye down the Master’s figure. Appreciatively, one might say. Hopefully, even.

The Master seemed to have to physically bite back a cutting insult. Or perhaps it had been a speech, long and dramatic, and equally admirable and yawn-inspiring. Who knew? The Doctor certainly didn’t. “You have no idea,” he breathed. There was something different about him, something else, something indescribably, undeniably, intangibly _off_ about him that the Doctor had never seen in any of his other Masters. “You haven’t got a clue,” he spat. There was a light in his eyes, fervent and almost feverish, and when his lip curled, it almost looked like his face was about to peel right off. “You swan around—”

“Of course,” said the Doctor. “But, my dear fellow, don’t you think it’s possible that you _might_ have miswired your—”

The Master snarled and pressed the button. There was a loud _bang_ and he vanished, leaving nothing in his wake but a puff of dust and a fading scream.

The Doctor craned his neck, squinting to watch the rapidly shrinking dot in the sky. Eventually, the pinprick vanished. “Well,” sighed the Doctor, straightening his lapels. “I suppose I’ll have to save him. _Again_.”

He huffed, the grinned. _It seems like just yesterday_.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this entire thing to call the master a clown you're welcome


End file.
